


Little Turnip-Coloured Riding Hood

by orphan_account



Category: Blackadder
Genre: Cannibalism, Fairy Tale Parody, Gen, Maybe - Freeform, Turnips, Wolves(?), awful sex jokes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-22
Updated: 2020-08-22
Packaged: 2021-03-06 21:53:46
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,060
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26035972
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: Blackadder and Baldrick embark on a 'quest' through the woods to deliver some scones and cakes to their 'friend' Darling. Will their journey be successful, or will it all go up in smoke and gut mucus?A tale of very large teeth, the penetrative power of incredibly pointy pencils, and ingestion.
Comments: 2
Kudos: 3





	Little Turnip-Coloured Riding Hood

“Sir,” Baldric began, “I have a question, if I may.”

Blackadder felt a reprehensible mixture of dread and irritation at those words, a mixture as familiar to him as a cheesemaker’s rennet-and-milk mixture might have been to a cheesemaker who’d spent his entire life making one distinctive label of cheese in a family business owned by sixty generations of the same lineage of cheesemakers specialising exclusively in that same label of cheese. With a sigh, he resigned himself to humouring his dogsbody once again. “Make it worth my while.”

“Well, sir,” Baldric said, then stopped. He opened his mouth to start again but closed it swiftly. Perhaps finally settling on the question, he proceeded to ask: “Why do we have to ride through this forest? It’s so cold.”

“It is _not_ cold.”

“Easy for you to say, inn’t? You have a lovely, turnip-shaded cloak. You must be so warm, sir, under that protectively turnip-y covering. I don’t suppose you have room for one _teeny-tiny_ little Baldrick -”

“Absolutely not!” Blackadder pulled the aforementioned cloak tight with afront. “We have to ride through this forest to deliver some fresh scones and cakes from Melchet to Darling.” He sniggered slightly at the play on Darling’s unfortunate name. “If not for Melchet, I could still be in bed and you could be out of my sight. And I'll have you know that this cloak is a striking shade of burgundy, as it compliments my natural skin tone. Now if you open your mouth one more time, I will kick you from your horse.”

“But we’re not even halfway to Darling’s cottage -”

Blackadder kicked his dogsbody from his horse, feeling ever-so-slightly better about his day even as he did so.

The sun was rambling across the sky into a position resembling early afternoon by the time the pair reached Darling’s cottage. Blackadder lifted the lid of the scone-and-cake basket, noted grimly that he had eaten most of the scones and cakes already, and polished the remainder off before rapping impatiently on the door of Darling’s cottage.

“Darling,” he shouted, “Melchet thought you might fancy his empty picnic basket! May we come in?”

There was no reply from inside. Blackadder shrugged before unceremoniously opening Darling’s front door. It was rather odd for Darling to leave the front door open, especially considering the recent wolf infestations in these areas. He’d been rather hoping one would polish off Baldrick while they were riding, but apparently Baldrick’s overpowering stench was cloying enough to ward off even the most famished of wild canines...

With only minor apprehension, Blackadder made his way through Darling’s cottage (purposely knocking over a table of sharpened pencils, all lined up with precisely three centimetres between them, the same height to the nanometer, the horizontal insignia of Darling’s graphite kingdom) and towards his bedroom. A quick rap on the bedroom door betrayed a whimper from the other side.

“Are you feeling ill, Darling? I’m sure Baldrick has a cure for that - he can do the most wonderful things with a turnip and an acupuncture chart, Balders can.”

Baldrick readied the turnip in his hand, and Blackadder pushed open yet another door before something stopped him in his tracks faster than a train colliding head-on-head with another train on said tracks beside three ‘go faster’ signs. Darling’s bedroom looked almost the same as it had last time he’d visited - indeed, Darling was a creature of habit (most fishes were, really) - but the room held one crucial difference.

Poking out from above the sheets of Darling’s bed was a shape far larger than Darling himself. And unless Darling tended towards the more _illicit_ of bedtime practices...

“Why, how scandalous, Darling -” Blackadder began, but something stopped him yet again.

A high-pitched feminine cough sounded from the bed. “B-Blackadder,” the pitchy voice began, quivering pathetically, “i-it’s me, your friend, Darling! I-I’m feeling rather sick at the moment, so don’t come too near!”

“Why, Darling,” Blackadder hummed, sidling closer, “but what big ears you have!”

“I, um…” the voice chuckled nervously, and a hand waved the man away even as he approached. “All the better for hearing you with…”

“And Darling, what furry hands you have!” Blackadder’s own hand (less hairy but no less intimidating) skittered over to Darling’s table and seized a particularly large and sharpened pencil.

‘Darling’ gave a rather unconvincing sneeze. “All the better for… um… uh… ”

“And Darling,” Blackadder added, “What big teeth you have!”

“All the better for eating you with!” With this terribly forward declaration, not-Darling-at-all leapt from his bed, throwing the covers off.

 _Aaaah_ ,” cried Baldrick in horror, and the wolf jumped at him before devouring the man: stench and all. His dogsbody screeched all the while down. _Poor Baldrick hadn’t stood a chance,_ Blackadder thought gleefully, before realising that he was next. Even with Baldrick’s stench, this wolf was either stupid or sadistic enough to eat him, implying that reason and logical were likely as foreign objects to him as a bar of soap was to Baldrick, rendering Blackadder’s typical bribes and pleas utterly ineffective in this situation.

“What have you done with Darling, you foul creature?”

“It’s Field Marshall Haigh to you,” the wolf snarled. “And obviously, I’ve eaten Darling!”

“You’ve eaten him?!” Blackadder tried to sound as dismayed as possible, while attempting to derive a plan so cunning that it was as cunning as a fox who’d just earned a graduate diploma in Cunningness in Cunning University, Oxford, United Cunningdom. He brandished the pencil before him. “How vulgar! And he let you? How much did he pay?!”

Field Marshal Haig growled, moustache (since when did wolves have moustaches?) quivering temptingly. “He is in my stomach! And you will join him!”

Blackadder jabbed the pencil at the Field Marshall with all the accuracy of Sir Lancelot riding full tilt at a foe, lance in hand and resolve tight under armpit. If Sir Lancelot had stayed up far too late in bed with Gweneveire the night prior, was recovering from a week-long bender, and was perched atop a three-legged alpaca, that was.

Field Marshal Haig appeared unimpressed and swallowed him, pencil and all.

Blackadder woke up with a horrific headache only a few moments later. He was sitting inside a very cramped space, pressed nose to nose against two of his least favourite people in close confines - Baldrick and Darling. With a horrified shout, he pushed them backwards. They all cried out as the space shifted. Blackadder lifted a hand, and a gooey substance dripped from his skin like slimy syrup.

“Just a second,” Darling muttered. There was a sound of a scratch. Then a few scratches. It took an embarrassingly long time before Darling managed to light the match in the darkness. Suddenly, the pink cavernous walls of Field Marshal Haig were illuminated, and Blackadder could observe his company and the nonsensical graffiti (“hanging with the homies”/“graduating class of 500 BC”) that adorned the inside of the gut lining in all its glory.

One side of Darling’s face twitched with irritation. “As you can guess, Blackadder, we’ve all been swallowed.”

“And now I’m inside the belly of the beast.” He rolled his eyes. “Oh God. Just my luck to be suffocated to death inside a wolf with you two.”

“Not necessarily stuck, Sir,” Balders began with woefully unearned self-assurance, “for I have a cunning plan.”

“A very cunning plan? Is this plan cunning enough to escape from this mucousy prison before the Field Marshall swallows another innocent victim and we’re all choked to death within his belly?”

“It’s a plan that’ll do just that, sir.”

Blackadder could feel the dread and irritation that he’d mentioned at the beginning of this tale once again rise up. “I’ll regret this, but humour me. What is your cunning plan, Baldrick?”

“Oh, it’s very cunning, sir.” Baldrick nodded sagely. “You see, we will take that sharpened pencil that you had, and we will use it to cut our way out into freedom.”

Blackadder sighed with the pain of (at least) three dynasties of Blackadders. He walloped Baldrick around the head to make himself feel a little better. It helped. “Oh, Balders. Are you referring to this pencil?” He held it up, but the match had long since extinguished and there was no reference for the rhetorical question so he had to explain verbally. “It splintered with my first deep thrust into Haigs. The pencil was too weak and unable to thoroughly penetrate him, and now the splinters are little but pricks.” Blackadder trailed some of the Field Marshal's gut lining from his fingers thoughtfully.

“Oh, bugger,” Darling moaned, “my pencil! I sharpened it to perfection… And I was just going to suggest that we could sharpen it up with the large kitchen knife I have in my pocket, as well!”

Blackadder paused. “The what?”

“My large, freshly sharpened kitchen knife,” Darling whined. “The blade was just beginning to gleam when the Field Marshal burst in and ate me! Useless, now!”

Perfect! Once again, Blackadder threw both middle fingers up in Fate’s smarmy and self-entitled face, once again succeeding in escaping yet another Blackadder-typical horrible twist of luck. “Excellent, Darling! Somehow, you’ve managed to save the day. I’m as surprised as George is every Christmas when he eats Baldrick’s Turnip Surprise and discovers that the (rather unpredictable) surprise is a turnip.”

Darling brightened up. “Me, save the day? Well, that’s fantastic news! I’m very glad to hear that.”

“You cannot be as glad as I am. Now, Darling, if you’d kindly hand me that -”

But before Blackadder could complete his sentence, a muffled war cry of “WOOF WOOF” could be heard from outside of the wolf’s belly. “Quick, hurry up, Darling, the knife, make it quick, hurry up -”

A seam of light split the belly open, and Blackadder threw an arm over his eyes to protect them from the sudden flood of brightness. A boot wedged itself within the Field Marshal’s skin flap and kicked it aside in a gooey sheet of blood, stomach lining, and yellowish mucus.

“PHEW,” shouted the one and only Flashheart, holding an axe weeping with blood (and the author understands that capitals are not the most elegant of solutions, but what better way is there to display such flash?), “THE LAST TIME I PENETRATED SOMEONE THAT VIOLENTLY, THE POOR GIRL DIDN’T MAKE IT! WOOF WOOF!”

Blackadder growled. “Flashheart.”

“Eddie!” Flashheart extended a hand, which Blackadder pointedly ignored. Darling took it, and Flashheart lost his grip on Darling’s mucus-coated skin. Darling flew backwards and careened into a wall. “Or shall I call you Little Red Riding Hood now? Although the hood resembles a turnip colour more then red, it doesn't do your complexion many wonders!” Flashheart thrust his hips outwards provocatively. “They call me the XXXL Riding Hood in these forests because they've never seen anyone who rides like me! They’ve never seen a tree in the whole damned forest-” he thrust his hips again - “as thick as my _woody one_ either, woof woof!”

“We’re really grateful for your help, sir,” Baldrick began in idiotic earnest. “Turnipballina will never forget what you’ve done for us!” He brandished the turnip in question towards Flashheart.

“That’s a fine turnip you have there, young Baldrick! Assuming that you are Baldrick, and Bladder hasn’t trained another talking monkey. There are many things (and many people) that I’d like to do with that fine specimen! Woof woof!” Flashheart licked his lips in a gesture some may consider sensuous. If one was the type to find a dying slug sensuous, at least.

Darling cleared his throat pathetically. “I -”

“Well, fantastic seeing you again, Bladders,” crowed Flashheart. “Just as swiftly as I come -” here he made an obscene gesture - “I’m off again! I must move fast if the ladies want me to impregnate all of England! Woof woof!”

With that, the valiant huntsman threw a smoke bomb at Darling’s Elysian Field of stationary, trapezing out the window in the smokescreen.

And thus, the three agreed (or rather, Blackadder threatened them on pain of death) never to tell of the time when Flashheart cut them loose from Field Marshal Haig’s belly because they could have absolutely accomplished it themselves. But Blackadder’s ‘pain of death’ couldn’t have been all that threatening, because you know the story, don’t you, esteemed reader?

Now, don’t you dare tell a soul. On pain of death.

**Author's Note:**

> So! I've been stalking this fandom for an embarrassingly long time before getting over my fear of posting long enough to post something. That 'something' happened to be a Thing I threw together on an all-nighter (to celebrate my biology trials being over, you see), so I hoped you enjoyed it. I wanted it to be Blackadder/Darling, but I could not find a single place to shoehorn it in, so you get this instead.
> 
> I've actually wanted to write a fairy tale AU for ages, but I'm Too Lazy and Didn't Have Enough Time and Didn't Know How Well It'd Be Received. In my head, this was set between seasons 3 and 4, and George... I'm afraid George doesn't exist. Drop a kudo and/or (preferably 'and') a comment if you enjoyed it, and you'll make my day!


End file.
